Numb
by Daystar Searcher
Summary: He was wrapped in clouds and they made everything pale and far away and not matter, not really.


**A.N. This is a little something that popped into my head after an LJ discussion of Goren's lack of affect in 'Identity Crisis' and the possible explanations for it. I decided to go with him being stuffed to the gills with Valium (or a similar medication) rather than him being transformed into a zombie. True, the zombie story would've been funnier, but I have an angst habit to support here, dammit. **

**Oh, and I don't own Criminal Intent or any of its inhabitants and I'm not making any money. Suing me will accomplish pretty much nothing other than ruining my life, and I don't like angst *that* much. So please don't. Please.**

Floating.

No…not yet, just…suspended.

In the blue.

Grey blue, dirty blue. Heavy. A little. Buzzing, a little. With thoughts. All the all the all the thoughts that wanted to come back.

But that would go away. Soon. And there would quiet.

Whiteness. Blankness.

Nothing.

And he would float.

"Bobby?"

"Mmm?"

"Let's—let's go get coffee." She was wearing a ring today, and the hand with the ring was on his shoulder, and it was a small hand with short-cut nails, and her voice was soft but he could hear the emotion pressing up underneath it, like thorns pressing up beneath fleece.

And he just wanted the blue to fade into the whiteness, until the clocks stopped ticking because they were just gliding through air without sound and not hacking up time into little pieces that said _closer to death, closer to death, closer to death_—

"Bobby?"

He was wrapped in clouds and they made everything pale and far away and not matter, not really.

"Maybe some other time, Eames." And there were the words, and there were the words in the air, and they floated out nice and hung in the white blank air.

She bit her lip, and that was the thing she did when she was worried, and he noticed that she was doing the thing she did when she was worried, and he didn't care, and it was so wonderful, so absolutely positively wonderful not to care at all—

Except then she looked up and her eyes were bright bright bright and that made things shift and pinch inside him, bile on the back of his tongue just a little. A whisper in his brain. A snake-whisper weaving through the soft and yielding white cotton that floated inside him, filled up his veins and swirled below his skin.

"I'm just—I—" Her hand dropped. Her hands twitched at her sides. Gun hands, fists hands. They were mute. "_Talk_ to me, Bobby."

"What about?"

"God, anything. You never talk to me anymore and I—" and her eyes were gleaming and her fingers with the short-cut nails were clenching and he was trying to keep his head empty but Eames was making all the little scars up and down the inside of his skull itch and try to wiggle their way open, and the blue-grey haze was getting dirtier and heavier and darker little by little and he had to leave, had to leave _right now—_

"You've been so quiet this whole case—I mean, even more than usual, lately. And I know, Bobby, I _know_ this case hit home for you but you aren't saying anything. And if you don't want to talk about it, fine—" air whooshed into her mouth and out, a shaky suction— "but I just need to hear you say something."

"I'm fine, Eames."

"Like hell you are!"

"I'm fine. I'm going home. Please get out of my way."

"Don't do this."

"Goodnight, Eames. See you tomorrow."

It was nice and right how the words came out into the air without thinking. It was nice and right how there was no thinking at all.

He was staring at the elevator door (it was blue) when Eames reappeared at his shoulder. "I know you're on something, Bobby." Her voice low, a hiss, worn with worry and secrecy and frayed with emotions that didn't apply to them anymore. "Do you think I'm a fucking idiot? I know you're on something but you can't stay on it because I am not letting you get suspended again, you—"

"I have a prescription," he said. "Dr. Olivet."

"Well, then you need to talk to her about adjusting the dosage," she fired back. "Bobby, you're scaring me, you're acting like you don't feel anything anymore—"

Ping! The elevator. He stepped in. Met her eyes. "I don't want to feel anything ever again."

And Eames' face was frozen like ice with boiling emotions beneath in the blue fire, and she was going to melt away with trying to choke the words out of her mouth: "You can't—you can't—you—it's dangerous, you'll get yourself—"

"If you're worried about my capability, you can request a new partner. I won't mind anymore." He smiled, and he felt the smile on his face like it was very far away. And Eames' face was very far away. And there was a wall in his face and it kept everything away.

And her face just kept choking itself in spasms and little sparks of red and brown and black were gnashing and stirring inside him and it was almost starting to be like pain but then the elevator came and he got inside and Eames could never follow him to where he was going.

He was always leaving her behind at elevators, he thought as the door disappeared her face, and he filed away that observation for later use as the buzzing near-silence washed over his ears and the sweet, blessed whiteness finally surrounded him, swept him up, up, and away.


End file.
